Steady and Aglow
by patsan
Summary: Ten years after the break of war, Downton honours its fallen and Mary attends a special memorial with her son, while her husband stands beside the Earl of Gratham on stage. Based on BTS pics and videos. S5 AU.


_Hello, dear readers and welcome! _

_The story I'm presenting you today was inspired by recent behind-the-scenes pics and videos of the filming of S5. While this is my take on the events these pics and videos hint, **there are possible spoilers for the new season in here**, so if you don't want any of these, please stop reading._

_If you don't mind spoilers, then, I hope you enjoy this short fic :) It's a foray into a new era of Downton, a time in which life continues and both the memory of the horrors of the war and the knowledge of just how lucky these who are still there are very strong.  
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_I would like to thank **darkblueyank**, for her help in making my English a little better and for enjoyable talks on how the mind of a three years old boy would work._

_Thank you also to **thedowntonhistorian** for some useful historical information (more on that at the end of the story)._

_The characters of Downton Abbey, obviously, do not belong to me, but I must admit I have just too much fun playing with them :P_

_Enjoy!_

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**Steady and Aglow  
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**August 1924, Downton Village**

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"Shh, darling, it won't be long now," Mary whispered to her son as she held him on her lap.

He rubbed his eyes with his hand and turned to her, hiding his face into her shoulder, a small, petulant sigh leaving his lips.

He grabbed the lapel of her light coat and squeezed it between his fingers.

"When can I play?" he asked in a small voice, looking up at her.

"In a little while," she said with a smile, caressing his cheek.

He sighed, resting his head against her, and Mary pressed a kiss to his hair.

On the stage, her father spoke briefly, and Mary pointed his figure to her son.

"Doesn't grandpa look fine in his uniform?" she asked quietly.

She looked over at the Earl fondly as she spoke, but then her gaze lingered a little more appreciatively on the man standing next to him.

Both of them had a grave expression on their face, and Mary pressed her lips together as she recalled the ashen shade of her husband's face early that morning.

"S'ppose," George murmured, and then yawned, rubbing his eyes again.

Mary took his hand between her fingers, prying it away from his face to lie it down on his lap, and hugged him to her, smiling tenderly down at him.

The poor thing had been enduring this whole celebration for half an hour already, sitting upright and in silence for most of the memorial.

Mary was actually impressed by how well behaved he was being, holding to the promise he had made to his dear just Papa a few hours ago, to be _"a good chap"_ and to be quiet while the adults had their very important event.

However, never used to staying still for long, it was quite apparent that George's patience was wearing thinner by the minute.

"Look George, your Mr. Carson is about to read," she said as she noticed that the old butler, standing on the stage on the other side of her father, was opening the book he held in his hands.

As she expected, the new information caught George's attention, and he sat up a little straighter, craning his neck to see what was mostly hidden to him by all the other attendees sitting in the rows of chairs before them.

Mary held him up then, balancing him on her thighs and against her chest, so that he could have a better view and not miss Carson's performance of the _Ode of Remembrance_.

George leaned against her and looked over intently as the voice of Downton's butler filled the air.

_ They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,_

_ They fell with their faces to the foe._

"My Casson," George murmured as if in reverence, his mouth hanging open as he watched.

Mary squeezed his arm lightly, glancing at him with a smile at the obvious—and the well-known—fondness her son felt for Carson, an affection which was entirely returned.

She gazed at the stage then, where the beloved butler was reading solemnly from the worn out book in his large, wrinkled hands.

His face was serious, focused, and the still air of the August day grew sombre with memories of lost friends and relatives.

_They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:_

_Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn._

Mary swallowed as her eyes went to her husband standing tall and still beside her father, brow furrowed under the rim of his military cap.

Ten years had passed since that fateful day at the Garden Party and six years since the end of the war. And less than three years later they had married.

Mary knew they had been lucky, Matthew and she, to find their way to each other, miraculously and yet, somehow, inevitably.

The happiness they'd found in each other in all the days and weeks and months following their engagement had washed away part of the blackness of that time, but as she watched him now, wearing his old uniform, surrounded by men who like him had fought and come back, she could not help but be reminded of how close she'd been to losing him in that blasted war.

The Great War they called it, and yet it had taken the best of the British youth, so many sons, brothers, husbands and fiancés lost over the years, but Matthew had come back, they'd been together, they were married, and life had given them the precious gift she was now holding in her arms.

Instinctively, she pressed George a little closer and blinked back the tears she felt pricking at the back of her eyes.

_At the going down of the sun and in the morning_

_We will remember them._

_"__We will remember them,"_ the crowd repeated after the butler as tradition commanded, and as she pronounced these words slowly but steadily, a prayer formed in her heart, something that had not happened in some time, although it only seemed such a short time ago since she used to go on her knees on the hard floor of her bedroom, joining her hands in front of the photograph of a man who meant more to her than she would ever be able to say.

_Thank you_, she thought with a sigh.

_Thank you, for sparing him, for letting him have this_.

She closed her yeas briefly, and when she opened them her husband was looking at her, his eyes a startling hue of blue in the shine of the midday sun.

Mary took a shallow breath and dared a smile in his direction.

Suddenly music filled the air, announcing that the memorial was coming to a close. It was a short march she'd heard many times before. It became sadder at the end, almost melancholic, and as always it made her shiver, for it felt too much like a goodbye.

Then it ended and the atmosphere broke at once.

The attendees began standing from their seats and George turned to her.

"Is Papa coming?" he asked, suddenly brighter than he had been a moment before.

"He will be with us in a moment," she answered, smiling when her son pouted exaggeratedly, so she tickled him and he started giggling.

"Let me go, Mama!" he exclaimed breathlessly, clutching his sides, squirming into her arms, till he finally broke free and ran away through the crowd of lingering people, now amiably chatting among them, some of them approaching the memorial stone uncovered only one hour previously.

"George!" she called, getting to her feet, breathing a sigh of relief when George's run was stopped by no other than his own father, who held him tightly against his legs while the boy laughed, and the scooped him up in his arms, throwing him in the air and catching him as he giggled.

Mary reached them, and Matthew turned to smile at her, the shadows of that morning finally gone from his eyes.

Matthew set George on his hip, and the boy reached for the medals pinned onto his chest, his fingertips lingering on one of them.

"Papa was very brave," he said looking his father straight in the eye, before breaking into a grin as if the very thought of that made him very happy.

Mary smiled indulgently, doubting George knew what the word he'd used meant, but glad it had stuck with him after they had talked about Matthew's medals that morning.

She had been in the nursery with George when he'd appeared, which had been a strange occurrence as it was usually Matthew the one who showed up first every day to play with their son before going on about his day.

But Matthew had been restless that morning—he always was when he had to wear his army uniform—and he'd gone for a walk on the grounds before breakfast.

George had been playing on the floor when Matthew had entered the nursery, and he'd looked up to smiling, but then had suddenly stopped moving, curiously eyeing his father's unfamiliar clothes.

"He doesn't remember you wore the uniform last November," Mary had said looking down at George's face.

"He was too young," Matthew had replied with a shrug.

He had picked George up the floor and sat down with him in the nearest chair.

He had then explained that they were going to attend a very important event down in the village, in which the people of Downton were going to remember all the good soldiers who had been in the war and had not come back.

Mary had watched them from afar as Matthew had explained that he too had been a soldier once, that was why he was wearing a uniform, and that he had been lucky, because he had come back home, while many of the other soldiers had not.

She wasn't sure George had truly understood what his father was saying, but this was important to Matthew, and so she'd walked to them and crouched beside the chair as her husband spoke.

George had then pointed at the medals on Matthew's chest and she'd seen how her husband's gaze had clouded, a shadow darkening his clear eyes, so she had spoken in his stead.

"The medals mean your Papa was a very brave soldier," she'd said as their son turned his attention on her. "He saved many lives during the war and helped keep a lot of people safe here at home."

"Me too?" he'd asked with wide eyes and Mary had smiled and nodded.

"You weren't born yet, but yes, your Papa was in the war so that you could be safe too."

"Will I have medals?" he'd then asked eagerly, "when I'm a soldier like Papa?"

The question had been unexpected and both Mary and Matthew had gaped in shock.

A shiver had run up her spine and her throat had suddenly felt dry.

She'd swallowed, helplessly thinking about something to say, and out of the corner of her eye she'd noticed Matthew's face had lost all colour.

She'd finally opened her mouth to speak, but Matthew had beaten her, a determinate frown setting on his face.

"You will do a lot of things in your life, George, things that will make you happy," he'd said seriously, his voice just about catching at his son's name, "but you will not be a soldier, because being a soldier is not fun at all."

"Oh," George had breathed, and then creased his brow in thought. "Can I play with Sybbie then?" he'd asked as he'd looked up at them expectantly.

And this time Mary had been the one to talk.

"I thought you just said you didn't want to play with her?" Mary asked with a knowing smile.

Matthew looked at her confused.

"She stole Diamond, you see," she'd explained to Matthew, watching as the boy looked away.

"I stole Mr. Babbie first," he'd finally admitted in a low voice, and she and Matthew had shared an amused look.

They had left the abbey soon afterwards, promising George that they would find the toys and play with Sybbie and Uncle Tom after lunch, but only if he behaved at the memorial. They had later found out that Tom had had a similar speech with his daughter.

Mary smiled at George and finally answered his question.

"Yes, my darling, Papa was very brave," she said looking Matthew, her hand going to his arm then sliding down till her fingers were entwined with his.

Matthew turned and smiled to her.

She knew he did not see all that he had done in the war as brave or even just, but it was important that he kept believing that whatever he had to carry out during those years had been for the right reasons.

"I wouldn't be able to get up in the mornings otherwise," he'd confessed one night against her hair, and Mary had tightened her arms around him, still feeling a little shaken by the sight of her new husband thrashing in his sleep, panic running through her veins when he would not wake from his nightmare.

It had happened not long into their honeymoon and he'd explained the following day that being in France again was probably what had brought on these powerful nightmares he'd believed he'd put to rest for good.

"You should've said that before we came here," she'd scolded him.

"I have to make peace with my ghosts, Mary. For my sake. And for yours too. For the sake of our future children."

And he had, in time.

He still didn't talk much about the war, but sometimes he shared some of the lighter memories, a story about a fellow comrade or a tale of some of the rare trips to Paris. He rarely talked of the darkest moments, but when he did he told her how he'd feared for his life, how that fear had seeped through his bones, how it had been his constant companion, how the only comfort toward the end had been her little token, even though she belonged to another man back then and he belonged to another woman.

"Can I play now?" George asked now bringing Mary's attention to the present. "I was a good chap," he reminded them.

"In a moment," Matthew said, and George sighed. "I want to show you something first."

"Alright," George conceded, and Mary's lips curved into an amused smile.

Matthew lead the way then and they walked the short distance to the memorial stone that had been build for this day, where all the names of the fallen soldiers of Downton were listed.

Matthew pointed out some of the names to their son, sparing a word for them, and then his hand lingered on William's name.

"He was a good man, George. I think you would have liked him," he said. "He worked at Downton, do you know? And he knew Mr. Carson and Mrs. Bates."

"He could play the piano," Mary added, and both her men looked at her in surprise, although George's eyes were much wider than his father's. "Mrs. Bates told me. She said sometimes he played it in the servants' hall, and some of the others servants danced."

George giggled at the news, and turned conspiratorially to her father. "My Casson does not dance," he said knowingly, and both Mary and Matthew laughed.

"Oh, I don't know, George," she said, and then, noticing the butler standing not far away, she added, "why don't you go and ask him?"

Matthew turned and finally released George who didn't waste any time and quickly ran to the old man.

From their spot near the monument they could see Carson smiling warmly at their son and then lean down as he listened carefully to his animated chatter.

"I'm afraid the morning left him with a lot of unused energy. I almost fear for poor nanny," Mary commented with a dark expression.

"It's alright," Matthew interjected, "Tom and I will take care of the children this afternoon. We'll tire them out so thoroughly they'll fall asleep in time for dinner," he promised, a cheeky grin lighting up his face as he took off his cap.

"That's quite a promise, Mr. Crawley. Are you sure you can keep it up?"

"Oh, I'm quite sure, my dear, but first, please, let's go home. I can't wait to take this bloody uniform off."

Mary watched him try to smooth his dishevelled hair and failing. She pressed her lips together, trying, but failing, to suppress a smile. Her eyes moved from his hair to his eyes, down to his mouth, finally glancing at his broad shoulders and chest admiringly.

She touched Matthew's chest, her fingertips brushing against the rough material of his army uniform.

Her eyes shot up to his as her eyebrows raised suggestively.

"Well, darling," she said with her most innocent tone, "maybe when we get home I can help you with that. What do you think?"

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**Fin**

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The so called _Ode of Remembrance_ is originally from Laurence Binyon's poem _For the Fallen_, first published in September 1914 in _The Times_. The poem was written for the British soldiers who had died by that time, and in particular for the British Expeditionary Force, whose casualties rates were already high on the Western Front. The third and fourth (more often only the fourth) stanzas are traditionally read aloud in WWI remembrance services and the last line of the fourth stanza "We will remember them", is repeated in response by those listening. Sometimes the phrase "Lest we forget" is added as a final line at the end of the ode and repeated in response.

The title of the story also come from _For the Fallen_, from the lines _They went with songs to the battle, they were young/Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. _I found Steady and Aglow to be the perfect words for what I imagine this moment in Mary and Matthew's life, in which they are basically living their dream, being married and together, having so much fun they would tell stories of their youth with a mysterious and amused glint in their eyes when they are old and grey ;)

I do hope you enjoyed the story as a great deal of thought went into it, especially into George's personality and what his life at Downton could be at that age.

As always any comment, review, thought you have will be very appreciated!

Till next time :)


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